


The Romance Was There

by apliddell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Johnlock, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confession, Love Letters, M/M, Mention of past trauma, Platonic Bedsharing, Post Mary, Post S3, Villain Mary, actually this is basically a slumber party, sherlock secretly loves musicals, very short-lived pining, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 14:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: In which Sherlock reveals his merits as a housekeeper, and a few other things, too.





	The Romance Was There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Candle_For_Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/gifts).



> For my dear Moony for no real reason, other than I adore her, and it's Christmas.

When I told Sherlock that Harry would be staying with us over Christmas, I expected him to decide that he’d changed his mind about accepting his parents’ invitation to spend Christmas with them at their cottage. But Sherlock only remarked that we must put a padlock on our corkscrew and kicked back, when I prodded him for it under the breakfast table. A box of tarts from our favourite bakery appeared on the kitchen worktop on Christmas Eve, the morning of Harry’s arrival, and Sherlock only hmm’d absentmindedly when questioned. 

 

Harry was keen on holly jollying when she turned up at Baker Street. Along with her overnight bag and a small bag of gifts, she brought a little artificial Christmas tree, pre-dressed in fairy lights. Sherlock tried not to look interested while she and I found a likely corner for it, but he did consent to play a few carols on his violin. 

 

After we’d had our dinner of quiche and an ungodly amount of roast potatoes, Harry brought out a sleeve of DVDs and flipped through it. Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom, and when we heard the shower run, I thought for sure we’d seen the last of him for the evening. But he ambled out a few minutes later with damp hair and dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown. 

 

“Hope you don’t mind,” Sherlock said. “But I thought you’re probably going to put on something,” he paused, searching for the right word, “Nostalgic. And that sort of thing sinks in a bit better in pyjamas.” 

 

“Oooh, good thinking!” said Harry. “I’ll do mine as well.” And off she went to the bathroom to change. 

 

“You as well, John?” Sherlock asked, sinking onto the sofa. 

 

I considered, “All right then.” I went up to my room, and when I came back in my jim jams, Harry was sat in my chair, and the credits for _My Fair Lady_ were rolling across the screen. “I thought it was going to be a Christmas film.” 

 

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Jacky,” Harry told me. 

 

“Still nostalgic, Sherlock agreed. 

 

“Fine, fine, outvoted, I suppose.” 

 

I sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock, and almost at once he nudged me with his knee, “Is there any more cocoa, John?”

 

“Cocoa? There isn’t any cocoa.” 

 

He grinned winningly at me, “Oh, there isn’t? I suppose you haven’t made it yet.” 

 

I snorted, “Nice try.”

 

“Did someone say ‘cocoa’?” Harry asked, looking away from the telly. “I’ll have some, if you’re offering.” 

 

“I didn’t, actually!” 

 

“Thanks, John,” Sherlock sang. “You’re an angel. Isn’t he, Harry?”

 

Harry raised her eyebrows and looked back and forth between Sherlock and me, “He has his moments. Most of them do involve cocoa.” 

 

“You two should be illegal. Do we even have the things for it?”

 

“We definitely have the things for it; I checked. You may as well bring the tarts while you’re up, John.” 

 

I laughed, “I’m not making any fucking cocoa. Sorry.” 

 

Sherlock turned an exaggerated pout on me, “John, it’s Christmas.” 

 

“You make it, then, Mr Cocoa Expert.” 

 

Sherlock gave a longer sigh than should be humanly possible and flounced off for the kitchen. 

 

Harry watched him off, then leaned toward me conspiratorially, “Sooo, where are we on that?”

 

I drew back on the sofa, “Ha, no thanks.” 

 

Harry rolled her eyes and moved to the sofa, “Oh come on, Jacky. It’s been over a year since Mary, and you’re not getting any younger. You’ve moved back in for a reason, haven’t you? I’m your big sister; we can have a talk about this, can’t we?”

 

“There really isn’t anything to talk about, Harriet. Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happening. It’s not got anything to do with Mary. He’s. I don’t think he’s like that. He doesn’t do relationship things; he’s only a bit er. Grabby.” 

 

“Grabby!”

 

“Shush!”

 

“What’s he been grabbing?” 

 

“Will you shut up, and go and sit over there! He’ll hear you, and I’m not. We’re just. He’s my best friend, okay. It’s fine.” 

 

Harry returned to my chair, “Fine, I’ll leave you the sofa.” She gave me a broad wink. 

 

“Stop it!” 

 

Sherlock swept in with three mugs of cocoa and a plate of tarts on a tray, “Ah squabbling among siblings. Now it really is nostalgic in here. I think there’s been a law passed, actually.”  He bent toward Harry with the tray, “Guests first.”

 

“Ta,” Harry helped herself to a tart and a mug, and Sherlock returned to the sofa. 

 

I reached for a mug, and Sherlock knocked my hand away, “No, those are both for me. If you wanted some, you should have made it.” 

 

“Very funny. Can I have some, please?”

 

Sherlock pretended to consider, “What’ll you give me for it?”

 

I dug in my pockets gamely, “All I’ve got is...lint.”

 

“Ah, well. Tis the season,” Sherlock nudged a mug toward me on the tray. 

 

“Cheers,” I said rather sardonically, but Sherlock took no notice of my tone and tapped his mug against mine with a little grin. “I haven’t got anything left to barter for a tart, though.”

 

“Mmm, the tart you can have for free. I’ve even got your favourite.” 

 

I took a tart, “Well, thanks.”

 

“Ho ho ho,” Sherlock put the tray on the coffee table, and settled into his nook of the sofa. 

 

“Have you got a favourite tart, John?” Harry sounded amused from my chair. 

 

“It’s pear,” Sherlock told her. 

 

I took a sip of my cocoa, “This is delicious.”

 

“Of course it is,” Sherlock said loftily. “You never can seem to acknowledge my merits as a housekeeper, John. When have I ever offered you anything undelicious?”

 

I raised my eyebrows, “Well, there was the eyeball. Though I did hear that was surprisingly okay.”

 

“I didn’t  _ make _ the eyeball, did I, John?”

 

“Wow,” Harry muttered.

 

Sherlock flushed faintly, “Anyway. That’s neither here nor there. Are we going to talk all through this?” he nodded at the telly.

 

“Do you like this movie?” I asked, rather surprised. 

 

Sherlock shrugged and smiled, “Well, nostalgia.” He half turned to plump the pillow he was leaning against, “When I was seven, I told my dad I was going to marry Freddy Eynsford-Hill.” 

 

Harry laughed, “Sherlock Eynsford-Hill. Suits you.” 

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock half-glanced at me. “Shush now. I’m watching.” 

 

…

 

Wake on the sofa to Harry Watson’s quiet snoring. I’m slumped against John’s shoulder and am so cosy that I don’t want to move. The fire John laid earlier is flickering picturesquely, and the volume on the telly is nearly inaudible, though the film is still playing. Keep still, hoping John won’t notice I’m awake. He may be asleep himself, actually. His breathing is deep and slow (something rather mesmerising about the rise and fall of his chest)(swallow an impulse to put my hand to it). Avert my eyes, back to the telly where Freddy is preparing to sing 'The Street Where You Live' (rather pleased I haven’t missed it)(still quite fancy Jeremy Brett). 

 

Under me, John’s chest expands and my ear buzzes, when he begins to hum along quietly with the music playing onscreen. His left hand, which has been rather trapped between us, slides along the sofa cushion til his fingers bump mine. After a moment, his hand withdraws (only a bit so that our hands don’t touch anymore) and John sighs (feel a little wiffle of his breath in my hair)(or is that only my fancy?)(don’t know how much longer I can keep still like this).  

 

“You’re awake, aren’t you? Mind if I have my arm back? It’s been all pins and needles for an hour,” John’s voice is low, and there’s a note of amusement in it. 

 

Sit up rather embarrassed and ruffle my hair, “Sorry. Have I been asleep long? You could have waked me.”

 

John smiles, “No, it’s all right. You don’t get nearly enough sleep, so I try and let you, when you are. This isn’t the first time you’ve used me for a pillow, you know.”

 

“I don’t do that!”

 

John grins at me, “You really do, though. Half the time we go anywhere on the tube more than twenty minutes away.” 

 

“That is not true! I don’t go to sleep on the tube!”

 

John laughs, “It’s all right. I don’t mind I’m a pillow. I didn’t know you weren’t doing it on purpose, actually.” 

 

“I didn’t know I was doing it at all. You are comfortable,” I admit. “I would have stayed, if you hadn’t wanted your arm back.” John laughs low and opens his mouth to reply, but he’s interrupted by a huge yawn from Harry. 

 

“Well boys, I’m for Bedfordshire. Where shall we put me, Jacky?”

 

John rises, “You’re in my room, Harry. Through the kitchen, up the stairs. There’re fresh things on the bed and extra blankets in the cupboard, if you get cold.”

 

Harry rises as well and grins, “Sorry to be putting you out of your bedroom, John,” she says brightly. “Where will you sleep?”

 

John tucks his left hand behind his back, “It’s fine, Harry. I’ll hang upside down from a hook in the ceiling like I always do.” He looks at me, “Don’t I, Sherlock?”

 

Nod, “Of course. Every night. He’s got incredibly strong toes.” John laughs. 

 

Harry picks up her bag, “Well good night, guys. Merry Christmas.”  And she chuckles her way up to John’s bedroom. 

 

John sits back down next to me, “You staying up a bit longer?”

 

“If you like. Or I can make myself scarce, if you want to go to sleep.” 

 

John shrugs, then shakes his head, “I think I’ll make up the sofa before I get too sleepy, but stay, if you like. I’ll be up for a bit longer.” 

 

“All right, I think I will.” 

 

John gets up and goes to the airing cupboard to get clean sheets, and I stand and stretch, then make for my music stand. Shuffle through my sheet music, and John returns presently with an armload of bedding. 

 

“Any requests?” I ask, picking up my violin. 

 

John thinks as he stuffs my bee pillow into a case, “I like it when you just noodle about a bit. Are you up for that?”

 

“Noodle, John? Certainly, I’ll noodle for you.” Play a little Bach (John loves Bach and asks for it often, though he has to hum when he makes his requests, because he only listens when I’m playing and so hasn’t learnt the names of anything) then something sort of windy, but that sounds too lonely and finally a conversation between the rain and the firelight, which is cheating because it’s less improvising and more like courting a composition (but I know he’ll like it, so I do it anyway)(story of my life!). 

 

When I lower my bow and turn away from the window, John is lying stretched out on the sofa with his eyes shut. He’s wearing a little smile, and his hands are loosely clasped on his belly. He looks so pleased and peaceful and  _ satisfied  _ that I’m almost embarrassed to look at him. Busy myself with putting away my violin, then come and sit on the arm of the sofa. 

 

John opens his eyes, and his smile broadens, “That was fantastic.” He sighs and plumps his pillow, “Did you ever think about playing professionally?”

 

Try and moderate my answering smile a bit, “I’m really not as good as you think, and I’m incurably lazy about any sort of regular practice. I’m a talented noodler. That’s all.” 

 

John shakes his head and gives my knee a little nudge, “Shut up and let me compliment you. You’re brilliant, and everyone should hear you.” 

 

My face warms so quickly that I get a little dizzy, “I’m content with the attention of my present audience, John.” Tuck in my chin, though I’m sure I must be so scarlet that it doesn’t make any difference, “Thank you.” 

 

“Genius needs an audience,” John counters, reaching for another pillow and punching the pile he’s assembling. 

 

“Proof positive I am not a musical genius. All I need is you.” The last sentence hangs in air for a moment, before I cough, as if I might hide it retroactively. “I’ve got more pillows, if you like. Are you really going to try and sleep on the sofa? Your shoulder’s going to be awful in the morning.” 

 

John nods concession, “I know it’ll be awful. But there isn’t anywhere else.”

 

Hesitate (it is too much)(I would give him anything, but he will think it is too much), “You can have my bed, if you like. I’ll take the sofa.”

 

John’s face clouds, and his hand goes unconsciously to his ribcage (site of my old injury)(call it what it is, my gunshot wound)(little twinge of shame at that)(no, no, not that tonight, push it away), “Sherlock you can’t sleep on the sofa.” 

 

“Well neither can you. You’ve already got that pain line you get in your forehead. You’ll be a positive ogre in the morning, if you have to pass the entire night on the sofa.”

 

“Well,” John says slowly, “We might. Share?”

 

“Share? My bed?” 

 

“Just a suggestion,” John says hastily. 

 

“No, it’s a good idea. I’m game if you are. Did you want to go. Now?”

 

“Sure,” John stands up. “I’m ready.” 

 

…

  
  


“It’s a danger night, isn’t it?” Sherlock turned onto his side on the bed to face me. 

 

“Hmm?” I turned also and leaned on my elbow.

 

“For Harry, I mean. That’s why you invited her here. Right?” 

 

“Oh, Harry. Yeah, sort of. She gets really into Christmas, and she was meant to spend it with some friends, who wound up going away at the last minute. She just gets really sad that she doesn’t have anyone to share it with, you know. She gets lonely. Sometimes she. Well anyway. I know what that’s like. So here we are. Nice of you to stick around. It probably wouldn’t have been as much fun without you. You. She likes you.” 

 

Sherlock shrugged, “Well, I didn’t really stay to be nice to Harry. I just. Didn’t want to. Be apart.”

 

I nodded, “Yeah, nor did I. It erm. Nor did I.” 

 

Sherlock turned onto his back, “It’s getting harder, don’t you think? Being apart. Now you’re back in the flat, I get so impatient with the bits that don’t have you in them. There’re still. Too many.” 

 

“Yeah. It’s. It is getting harder. Yes.” We were quiet for a long time. “Harrison Ford.”

 

“Hmm?” Sherlock rolled over again to meet my eye. 

 

“First guy I ever fancied. Harrison Ford. Or maybe I should say Han Solo? Anyway. Ha. You showed me yours.” 

 

“Ah yes, so I did.” Sherlock smiled and leaned on his arm. “I should tell you, John. I erm. I heard you and Harry talking from the kitchen. That’s why I. I wanted to make things a bit ah. Clearer.”

 

I flopped back against my pillow, “Jesus, you heard us talking? That’s really embarrassing, I’m sorry.” 

 

“No, it’s not. I don't mind, and anyway people have said as much in front of both of us. Though of course not as much since,” he hesitated. 

 

“Since Mary,” I finished. 

 

He nodded, “Right. Not since Mary.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together, “I’m sorry. Sorry about that.” 

 

I sat up to look at him, “About Mary? What for?”

 

He frowned, “What for? For all of it. I should have. Seen what she was. I should have looked after you better. I’m sorry.” 

 

“I’d already decided to marry her, before you even met her! I should have looked after _ you  _ better! Even if she hadn’t been what she was, it was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. I wanted it not to be, but I. I knew it was.” My sigh came out a little wobbly, and Sherlock reached out to squeeze my shoulder. 

 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said presently, “Maybe we can accept that we’re only human, and we don’t need to be angry with ourselves for what happened to us.” 

 

I let out a shaky little laugh, “Human, eh? Even you?” 

 

“Even you,” Sherlock slid his hand down my shoulder to catch and squeeze my hand, and something about the pressure of his warm fingers on mine loosened something inside me. My eyes pricked and stung, and I began to cry. Sherlock sat up and gave my hand a little tug, and I let him pull me to him and lay my head against his shoulder. He stroked my back in long slow ovals and rested his cheek against my hair, and the more he touched me, the more I seemed to come unspooled. It was a long time, I think, until I could stop crying. 

 

...

 

I suppose I shouldn’t have missed Sherlock when I woke up alone in his bed on Christmas morning. It’d been some time since I woke up with someone next to me, and I shouldn’t’ve expected it. But there was only a warmish hollow on the bed, where Sherlock should have been. Where he had been, anyway. I sat up and smoothed my hair, feeling a little uneasy. But in the en suite bathroom, the shower went on, and I leaned back against my pillow, relieved. 

 

My head rather ached, so I reached for the glass of water Sherlock had put on the night table when we went to bed the evening before. My hand brushed something soft, and when I turned to look at it, I found a dressing gown hanging from the headboard. It was wine-coloured, soft and dense, and seemed to exude its own warmth, like a living, breathing thing. Stuck to the collar with a pin was a folded note that had my name printed on it. I pulled out the pin and took a quick sip of water before I put on the dressing gown and unfolded the note. 

  
  


_ My dearest John,  _

_ Last night, and not for the first time, I neglected something. It is something that I have neglected for more than five years, and you have been more forgiving with me than I deserve. I have been craven and selfish and desperate to keep you in my life, even when I haven’t been all that you need. But it doesn’t do to begin a love letter with extended self abasement. My regrets are not the point. I will only ask you to be a tiny bit more patient.  _

_ The first time I almost told you that I love you was the first time you saved my life. When you shot the cabby. That was probably too soon. Almost certainly too soon. Early days. We hardly knew each other. It would have been ridiculous. Though you shot a man to save my life, which is at least equally ridiculous. Then I suppose it must have been after the pool. I’d been sitting on it for a little while, a few months. I am ashamed to tell you that I thought it would be more convenient to us both if I wished my feelings away. Well anyway, it was only growing. I think I would have told you then, only you left. You went away with your girlfriend, not that I blamed you for that. Again, I nearly told you when we went to Dartmoor to investigate the glowing rabbit, but instead I called you my only friend. I was so small and cowardly; it was as near as I could get. I nearly told you that I love you before I went away, but I couldn’t stand to tell you and then leave you. I told myself it would be cruel. I still don’t know that I did right. _

_ I nearly told you that I love you when I came back. When you almost died and when we almost died together. But you were engaged, and I couldn’t ruin any more of your happiness. I did say it at your wedding, but I knew I wasn’t saying it so that you could hear it properly, so I suppose it didn’t count. _

_ I wanted to tell you when you found me in that drug den. I wanted to tell you when you found Janine in my flat. I wanted to tell you when I woke up from the surgery to dig the bullet out of my body in hospital, and you were holding my hand and shining on me like the sun so that I could hardly look at you. I wanted to tell you. I have always wanted to tell you, John. Always, always always, I have wanted to tell you. I love you.  _

_ Merry Christmas,  _

_ Sherlock  _

 

…

  
  


John is wearing his gift when I emerge from the bathroom and rejoin him in my bedroom (a good sign, surely?). And when he turns his smiling face on me, his expression is sweeter and easier than I remember it for a long, long time, though there are traces of tears drying on his face. 

 

“It is so like you,” John rises from the bed as I enter. “It is  _ so _ like you to creep about in the night making things perfect for me and leave me to blush and stammer like a fool.”

 

“You’re not-”

 

“I love you,” John breaks into a little laugh as he says it. “I love you. I love you, too.” He steps forward again so that we’re nearly nose to nose and catches hold of my hand. Whether I’m going to laugh or cry or both, I don’t know, because whatever it is, it’s trapped somewhere in the area of my sternum (this is why I had to write it down!), and I can’t speak, but John is holding my hand and John  _ loves  _ me, and I know it’ll all be all right in a moment. 

 

John smiles up at me, and though I can’t say anything, I can smile back. “Tell me something Sherlock,” he speaks again after a moment, his voice warm, his eyes playful (love it when he’s like this!), “Had you always planned on seducing me on Christmas morning?”

 

“Seducing?” my voice husks when I answer, and my cheeks warm (so much for affecting innocence). 

 

John wets his lips and smiles slowly, runs his hand over his chest to pet at the dressing gown I’ve given him (it’s lovely cashmere, and it must be confessed that I did buy it wondering what it’d be like to touch him through it), “It’s quite intimate. Don’t you think?”

 

“It’s a Christmas present, John. It’s. Warm.”

 

John laughs low (makes my stomach curl deliciously)(haven’t heard this laugh before, not quite, though I expect I shall hear more of it)(perhaps much more), “It’s like if you turned the afterglow into a thing I could wear. It’s gorgeous.” John whispers his thumb across my palm (shiver), “Consider me seduced.” 

 

Shut my eyes a moment, “I was going to say the same to you.”

 

When I lean forward, John catches my cheek in his cupped palm, strokes my jawline, my chin, shines eagerness and joy on my face like starlight, “I want to kiss you.” John tips his chin so that we’re nearly touching (not quite) and I can feel his words, warm against my lips, “I want to kiss you, Sherlock.” John slips his hand round to clasp the back of my neck (does he feel the gooseflesh he’s raising under his fingertips?), strokes my hair, twines his fingers into it, “Would you like that?”

 

I nod, but John only cocks his head and smiles invitation, and I know he won’t do it until I tell him aloud that I want it (he is too, too good with me)(how does he know me this way already?), “Yes, John. Kiss me.” 

 

And he does. The tiniest little tease of a kiss. But he meets me when I chase him, and when we kiss again, the fervent elation radiating from him is. Sublime. I could make a universe of this kiss. I could live in it.  


End file.
